


Welcome.

by mustangwrangler



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Cannibalism, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, be nice to the boi, but not enough, come on arthur, hurt/some comfort, just give john a hug, kind of, kind of i mean i barely detail it happening so i guess, kind of(tm)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-11-26
Packaged: 2019-08-23 06:59:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16614125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mustangwrangler/pseuds/mustangwrangler
Summary: But of course he was always in need of saving and of course Arthur was always the one saving him.*SPOILERS FOR CHAPTER,,,, LIKE ONE I GUESS*





	1. Experiencing.

**Author's Note:**

> erk this is my first fanfic im letting other people read so yeah. theres that. howdy, strangers. ive finished the game so im not too worried about spoilers personally, but i ask that you try to keep the comments spoiler free. just to be curteous of other people. im dumb, so i probably made a lot of mistakes in my writing. just pretend mistakes arent there.
> 
> also, this is like a one shot thing. idk if ill add to it or make sequel stuff because im actually shit when it comes to continuing from old stuff. im workin on that, though. so im gonna try to keep it at a one shot unless i get super inspired to add to it.

He'd been riding for hours, non stop when he passed the little homestead somewhere in Lamoyne. Ambarino? He couldn't be bothered to recall. John had been on an errand for Strauss up near Annesburg and he was just barely heading back with almost five hundred in tow. Not a bad take. Poor bastard had borrowed from the wrong people.

Camp was back in New Hanover, and he had thought about taking a more Northerly route but it was a might stormy up there. He'd like to avoid that. Which was why he picked this route, and why he found himself passing a cozy looking farm house. A rather large man stood on the porch, in nothing but a dirty pair of overalls. The weight of his brow made him look like a disgruntled hog. But his dark eyes lit up at the sight of John.

"Hey, mister! Why, you look awful tired! Would ya mind takin' a rest here? Dinner's cookin'! We got room for one more!"

He waved for John to come closer. John slowed Old Boy, and looked at him. Dinner sounded amazing right about now, but he really needed to get back. Well, maybe he'd been riding for long enough. Nobody would blame him if he stopped to rest up, right? He'd just barely gotten back on his feet after Colter, and the first thing he did was head all the way to Annesburg. He deserved a bit of a rest. So he eased Old Boy around and approached the house, waving a friendly hand.

"Howdy, friend! Mighty kind of you to offer! I could use the rest if you really got the room." The big man grinned, mostly toothless. Up close, John got a funny feeling. The kind of feeling you got when someone stared at you for a little longer than need be. He attributed it to the weariness of the road, and dismounted. "Of course we got the room! Hitch up there and-" A woman sauntered up behind him, just as he looked back to the door. He smirked and wrapped an arm around her. She lovingly leaned up against him. "Come on inside." She finished warmly.

John smiled and nodded to them. They stepped inside and he placed his hat on the horn of his saddle before following them in.

"I'm gonna freshen up boys, I'll be right down to get dinner on your plates." She spoke cheerily as she headed up the stairs. John suddenly felt out of place. A tight sensation made itself known in his chest. He guessed he was just being shy. It'd been a while since he interacted so kindly with folk outside the camp. Well, it'd also been a while since he'd been so eagerly welcomed anywhere, even in the camp.

"Thank you both, very much. I'm comin' down from Annesburg." The big man's eyebrows jumped, somehow. They looked too heavy to. "Hell, that's a ways away!" He cackled from his seat at the end of the dinner table. "Oh, take a seat! Make yourself comfortable!" 

Maybe John was a little on edge. Or maybe that man's grin really did have a predatory look to it. He shook his head to himself, and pressed on a smile as he sat down. They sat in quiet for a while. John looked about the house, everywhere but at the other man. But every time he peeked at him from his peripheral, it looked like he was staring right at him. He was starting to feel really uneasy about this. But he just convinced himself he was being skiddish. He didn't want to be the kind of person who always expected the worst from people.

The other's voice made him flinch. "She's takin' quite a while, ain't she? Say, could you hop up there and see whats takin' her?" John nodded, stammering a bit. "I- Uh, sure." He stood and hesitantly made his way upstairs. There was an odd smell up there. He couldn't quite place it, nor could he pinpoint its origin. He didn't think too much of it as he cracked open their bedroom door. 

The woman whipped around, gasping. "Oh! Its only you. I'll be down shortly... You can stay in here for a little if you want." Her look got all smoldery, and John quickly shook his head. "I'm good. Just checkin' in on you." He shut the door hastily and sped back down the stairs. "She says she'll be down shortly." The big man nodded, tapping on the handle of his spoon. 

John sat back down, scooting his chair in quietly and carefully.

She wasn't lying. On her way to the table, she brought all their plates. It looked to be mostly potato, with bits of pale meat in it. Not as dark as beef, but not as light as something like pork or chicken. Who knows what it was. They all dug in, and John chewed the meat with a funny face. He'd never tasted anything like it before. The big man moaned around his bite. "Ain't that the best cookin' you ever tasted?" His wife giggled, resting a hand on his. John nodded, gulping down his own bite. "Uh... Different!" 

"I love you." His wife blushed at the comment. "I love you too, darlin'". John stared intently at his food as he ate. The two were laughing as they crossed arms and fed eachother. John wasn't too sure what they thought they were doing. It felt entirely inappropriate for a dinner with a guest, that's for sure.

He rubbed his neck as they damn near courted eachother all over again across the table. Once all plates were cleaned up, the woman offered drinks. John tried his damnedest to refuse, but they both insisted. She brought the bottle over and sat down on her husbands knee to pour it out into one of the glasses she had also retrieved. If John wasn't mistaken, the big man was staring at him like he was a hunk of meat. 

John thought little of it when he picked up the drink and downed the shot saying 'what the hell,'. It burnt the mouth, it burnt his throat and certainly did not taste like anything that was meant to go in the body. He coughed and cussed. "What the hell is that?" They both answered simultaneously. "The good stuff!"

He was already feeling buzzed. They weren't wrong. "How about you have another?" The man said, and his wife poured him another shot. He was too fuzzed out to notice that they hadn't had a drop yet. He shrugged and downed that one too.

Suddenly he felt heavy and tired. His hand slipped off the tabletop, and he felt himself lurch dangerously to the side. If he hadn't before, he panicked now as he heard them laughing like maniacs. He'd just been doped up. But he was too weak to even sit up and reach for his holster, let alone do anything at all about it before everything went black.

. . .

He came to, numb all over. Everything was foggy, and he couldn't hear a thing. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth and he was staring up into the blackness. His head lolled, and he vaguely felt himself being jostled around. 

The snap of a striking match found his ears through a thick veil of smog, and light flickered in his vision. The orange and black painted a picture he would scream at the sight of if he could really move in the first place.

Things were rushing back. Feeling for one. He was in pain, that was for sure. He felt cold and achy, and he knew exactly why. John struggled to struggle at all, thrashing weakly against his captor.

He was being searched by the woman while that pig of a man fucked him like he was some cheap whore. He had John pinned on his pack, forcing his shaking legs wide apart. John started pushing at him, pathetically. He didn't have the strength to do anything but make his attacker cackle. 

He didn't have to fight for long. A nauseating wave took him back into the depths of unconsciousness.

. . .

The sound of crickets greeted him when he came to once again. He was awake, but only halfway so. He listened to the bugs, the flies and the mosquitos buzzing around. The deafening buzz of flies lulled him in and out of sleep. 

When he finally opened his eyes, the piercing light of day stabbed his eyes. He grunted in pain, immediately moving to sit up. Something heavy kept him from doing so. 

The harsh grunts of another man echoed in his mind. He snapped up, ready to shove away and fight whatever it was. John yelped at the sight of it. A half rotted corpse draped across his lap. He cried out like a frightened dog, kicking and shoving at it as he scrambled back. His heart was thrumming in his ears as he gasped for air.

A constant pain down south confirmed his fears. He felt sick for not feeling stronger about what had just happened. But he reasoned with himself that he was still in shock. He still threw himself to his hands and knees and threw up that dinner and whatever else he ate yesterday and the day before.

He quickly crawled out of the pit of death, unable to find his feet for long. That was okay, he just needed out of that hole. He dropped back against a tree, panting with the effort it took to escape the grave. His throat was dry and his eyes were gummy.

He guessed he dozed off somewhere between blinking away the film in his vision and catching his breath.

. . .

Opening his eyes was a challenge and a half. The evening sun bathed him lovingly, calling him back to sleep like a siren. But John was the type to take up a challenge, and pried his eyes open anyways. Without much thought, he dragged himself to his feet. He did not even have the energy to stand up straight. The muscles in his... everywhere were worn out and weak, leaving him shaky and unsteady. Whatever was in that drink was lingering like a mangy mutt on his front porch. This limp wasn't nearly as funny as it should be.

He ambled aimlessly through the nearby trees. He hadn't even looked to that house in the distance. A snort made him freeze, and he looked around. Old Boy was trotting towards him through the trees, tossing his head.

"Boy am I glad to see you," He rasped weakly, holding onto him for support as he attempted to line himself up for a lunge into the saddle. One look at the high sitting stirrup had him doubting his current abilities. He had to get back to camp somehow. So he lifted a foot into the stirrup. Dragging himself into the saddle proved nearly impossible. It took him dozens of tries, each one harder than the last. Eventually he was up and swinging his other leg over Old Boy's back. He nearly lurched right off the other side, but held on just in time.

He started on the trail alright, but about a quarter into the trip, he dozed off again.

. . .

John jerked awake, cold and soaked to the bone. He shivered and quaked, gripping the horn of his saddle tightly. Old Boy trudged on through the whipping wind and pouring rain. John hissed through clenched teeth, shoulders climbing up towards his ears as he dared a look around. He was hurting worse than before, entire body aching and his rear stinging something fierce. God, at least they had dressed him back up before dumping him in that damn hole.

Small things.

He was beginning to realize where he was, even through the twilight storm. It was dusk, and they were in The Heartlands. Not on a road, mind you. But headed in the right direction, he thought. No, he knew. Old Boy was a smart one, he'd get him back home. So he left the reins looped around the horn of the saddle, and just held on for the ride. 

He soon became aware of the pounding in his temples, and the slow churning of his stomach. It felt like he'd drank all the bubbles off a dozen freshly poured beers and left it that way. The effort it took to sit upright and strong wasn't worth it. It hurt too bad. His muscles ached like he'd been thrown down a cliff twice, and his limbs shook.

As tired as he was, as heavy as his eyelids might be, he did not fall back into sleep. Instead he swayed and tipped in the saddle with a dull, lethargic expression. Leave it to him to finally fall out of the saddle awake.

John hit the wet grass with a thud and an oof. Old Boy nickered and stopped in his tracks. John shut his eyes against the falling rain, and stared into the dark. Sleep didn't come for a long time. He listened to the hills and the cliffs as he waited for it.

. . . 

"John! John!" The name came slowly to his ears, wobbling and distant. He meant to reply with a harsh 'what', but all he managed was a weak and breathy hum. The voice had strong hands, hurting hands as they gripped him by his sore shoulders and shook him like a ragdoll.

He let out a pitiful little yelp, eyes snapping open. The white hot sun seared into his eyes, before a dark shape blocked its thunderous path. He grunted and winced against the stabbing pain in his eyes and head. "Marston, you damn fool! You been missin' for a week now!" 

Huh. He could have swore only three days had passed between now and that damn house. John choked and coughed on his dry tongue as those strong hands dragged him into a seated position, pounding hard on his back. He felt frail, he felt rattled to the core by each blow.

"Stop, stop-" He pleaded with a painfully hoarse voice of his own. The pounding quit, and he drew in quaking breaths. He kept his eyes shut against the brightness, and his head hung low. His arms lay in his lap, limp and useless. 

"... stupid and reckless, you would have rotted out here if I hadn't been ordered by Dutch and begged by Abigail to come out here lookin' for you."

"... you hear me? Marston, can you-"

That pillar of a voice was firm and constant. The suns heat rocked him gently back to sleep as he leaned against whatever or whoever that perfect pillar was.

. . .

He woke up feeling trapped, bound tightly and unable to move. He couldn't open his eyes, let alone thrash too much. But he felt the panic rising as he inched about. Apparently he'd drawn some sort of attention with his fading struggle.

"Easy, John," The big voice drawled easily. He felt a presence beside him, and a large hand rest on his forehead. "You hear me now?" He drew his eyebrows together, before nodded weakly.

His bindings loosened up, and he slowly realized they weren't bindings but blankets. God, why? He was sweating profusely. "It's too hot," John croaked

"Settle down." Came that easy drawl again. But finally he recognized it. Arthur. How does one forget who that voice belonged to?

Arthur folded a bit of the blanket back, and cool air rushed in to whisk away the heat from his neck and collarbone. His shirt must be mostly undone. John tipped his head to the side, forcing his eyes open. Again, they were dry and gummy. He blinked as they stung. Arthur was nothing more than a fuzzy image. So he tried to look around, to gather anymore information on his whereabouts at least. But damn, it hurt to move his eyes. So he screwed them shut again.

Arthur must be reading his mind, because he answered his question. "You're back at camp, safe and sound. Most everyone is sleepin' now. You been out for most of the day." God dammit.

But of course he was always in need of saving and of course Arthur was always the one saving him.

"Some- Some crazy folk invited me in for dinner and I got doped up." He slurred, tongue heavy and dry. "I'm a God damn idiot. But shit, I was tired."

Arthur snorted like a bull, and John sensed his prickly aura. "Why would they do that, John Marston?"

"Well I have a sense it was to rob me." His words ran together. It felt like trying to talk in the freezing cold with lips that wouldn't move. "They took the money, five hundred."

Arthur cursed harshly. "Damn you, Marston." He felt his face heat up like molten metal and he wasn't sure if it was out of shame or if he was just dying already. His jaw felt bolted shut. There was more to the story, but he wouldn't share even with a gun to his head. He felt sick again. Actually sick. He could feel the bile rising in his throat, and he tried to swallow it down at first.

But he was losing that battle and he threw himself up, tossing the blanket aside with vigor he didn't know he had. The world spun on a top, and he felt Arthur grab him by his arm and his shoulder.

"I'm gonna be sick-" He managed.

Arthur stood up, pulling him with him. He staggered and tripped over his own feet despite not even taking a single step. "Out this way, I ain't got a bucket for ya."

He felt like a limp blanket draped over Arthur's shoulder and arm as he helped him shamble out of his tent. His stomach was already tensing, all too ready to eject anything that might still reside in it.

They didn't make it where Arthur clearly wanted to go, but they were close enough to a tree that John reached out to grab it. Even with it's hard and rough bark, it had a kinder attitude than Arthur did.

Unfortunately that kindness got it a puddle of bile at its base. Pure acid. His stomach kept heaving, but there was nothing to bring up. He held his hair aside with one shaking hand, the other planted against the bark of the tree. He could feel the heat of Arthur's hand radiating at his side, though he wasn't touching him.

His stomach kept on heaving even as he tried to speak. "Pretty sure- Oh fuck," He panted. "They fed me human meat," He strained, gagging uselessly. "Now that I think 'bout it." Dry heaving hurt worse than being stabbed, he was sure of it. He was gasping, curling in on himself each time his stomach tensed. It was slowing down at least. With each clench he grunted in pain. His limbs felt all wobbly. Like Bayou mud.

Arthur didn't say anything. It hurt. Like a punch to the sternum. Not that he needed one to feel the way he did right now. He felt stupid for it, but he could really use some sort of comfort from the other right now. Fucking anything really. 

His mind strayed back to what all he'd been through over the past few days. It only politely asked the nausea to stick around for him.

When he looked over, Arthur was glaring at him. Or just looking at him. He didn't know the difference these days. He watched his hooded eyes flicker off somewhere, and he turned his head to follow their direction. Across the camp was a fire still burning. Charles sat watching them, cutting something up with one of his knives. John was reminded to keep it down, people were sleeping. He looked back to the ground before his feet, taking deep breaths as the clenching in his stomach eased down to weak twinges. He just kept taking those deep breaths, concentrating on syncing them up with Arthur's controlled and tight exhales. He even breathed angrily.

"What else did they do?" The lowly spoken question was like a bullet in the night. John flinched, and looked towards him. "I don't know." He replied just as quick, maybe too quick.

He looked away again. One of Arthur's big hands closed in on the back of his neck, fingers digging deep into his muscles. John was reminded of their younger days, when he used to squirm under such a hold. He squirmed now, albeit weakly. "You're lying." Arthur bit out harshly, right into his ear. John shot a glance towards Charles, who was just barely looking down to his little project.

John coughed, spitting out onto the grass. It didn't rid him of that bitter and sharp flavor, bile, acid. Arthur dug his talons in. John winced, hissing as he tried to worm his way out of the hold. Arthur only dragged him back. "You've always been a shit liar, Marston."

"What else did they do to you?" He ground out, more a demand for answers than a question. Of course it was. 

John shrugged, trying desperately to escape Arthur's grip. He shut his eyes as flashes of that night burned his vision. The sounds that echoed in his ears made him tilt and shake his head like a dog with mites. He tucked his chin to his chest, before pushing off from the tree. John tried to shove his hand away with a push of his arm, and turned his back to Arthur. His legs still shook, but he reckoned he could make it back to bed on them.

Arthur wasn't about to let him, though. And he found himself dragged back behind the tree, out of Charles' sight. Fear spiked at that point, because now Charles' eyes no longer kept him from spilling more than he wanted to. One more layer of protection forcefully stripped away. With everyone else asleep, and Charles' attention barricaded, it was just him and Arthur.

He grunted as Arthur shoved him back against the tree, his big hand planted firmly against the bottom of his throat. He leaned his weight onto John's chest, keeping him pinned to the tree. John was already gripping his arm, glowering at him.

"John," Arthur warned, slowly reeling a fist back. Would he, really? One good look in his eyes told him yes. He would, really. 

John tested his luck anyways, and glared back with his jaw set hard. 

Arthur's knuckles connected with his bony cheek, cracking hard. John only exhaled sharply, a hushed grunt all that belied the pain. His steely stare earned him another punch, this one splitting his lip against his own teeth. He bared them, spitting the blood onto the grass. "Give up, Arthur."

He was the wrong one to be saying that. He knew that now, as blood poured like twin rivers from his nose. When John looked back to him through watering eyes, Arthur looked desperate. Angry and desperate. John knew that in his mind he wasn't really punishing John. He understood that blood thirsty frustration, he knew what if felt like to take it out on a living person. Their eyes met and Arthur faltered. He released John, who crumpled against the tree, all too tired to put the effort into standing. He sat against the trunk, tipping his head back to rest. Arthur squatted down in front of him, fingers tapping on John's boot.

John watched lazily, their breaths matching once more. 

"You let me sleep in my boots."

Arthur gave a measly little snort at that, face flat. John sought his eyes, and eventually found them. Arthur shifted, to comfortably stare back into his. He had a hard stare. Always did. The question was still somewhere in those eyes, this time pleading.

John took a breath, head lulling forward as he wiped a bit of the blood from his face. His cheek hurt something fierce, and he gingerly explored the area. Fucking Arthur had opened the top of one of those deep cuts in his face. Great.

He looked back up, inhaling sharply. "His wife robbed me blind while he took me on my back like a two dollar whore. There. That's what happened." He gave a bitter huff of laughter. "Not the first time something like that's happened. You know that."

Arthur grit his teeth and looked away. He stood and cursed sharply beneath his breath, knuckles white as he balled up his fists. John sighed. "Shit happens." He muttered.

"Always to you." Arthur hissed.

"Always to me." John nodded.

Arthur was fury. Always. John watched the muscle in his jaw jump in the moonlight as he glared off into the wilderness. He knew he was endlessly frustrating. Always in need of saving, always in need of helping. John briefly thought that he'd never felt more worthless but he'd felt that way so often he couldn't be sure if that was true.

"Sorry."

He watched Arthur flinch, and hang his head. It hurt. And John had to look away before he did something stupid like apologize again. He couldn't say it enough, but it always seemed to make things worse when he did. So he shut his mouth. 

Arthur left him there against the tree. John fell asleep there.


	2. Remembering.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah so i dont write smut alot. this is my first time writing it in a long time so, yeah. thanks for checkin this out, feel free to leave a comment. again, please keep it as spoiler free as ya can. if its cruddy its because i was half asleep the entire time i wrote this and i worked on it twice, both times fighting to keep my eyes open lmao.

John could only throw his head back and gape. His breath came out choppy and short, the closer he came. He could feel it building and coiling hot in his stomach. Arthur rammed himself in and jerked himself back out over and over again, always rubbing hard against that spot that felt so deep inside. The constant thrum of pleasure, so well complimented by the ache it was to be filled. Like salt on chocolate.

Pain and pleasure went together better, he concluded. Arthur loomed over him, so close but so far away. His arms boxed John in, planted firmly in the bed on each side of his head. A bit of his sprawled out hair was trapped beneath them, but he couldn't care less. 

He held on tight, fingers digging into Arthur's biceps and his elbows periodically knocking against his ribs. His thighs shook with how hard they squeezed around the older man's sturdy hips. So tight Arthur shifted to wedge a hand between himself and one leg suddenly. He snarled through gritted teeth. "Easy, John, easy." He said quickly, lowly. "Let up, damn you," He panted, diving down to nip and suck at John's unprotected throat. John moaned in that rough voice of his and snaked one arm around Arthur's back and one over his shoulder.

Arthur forcefully pushed John's leg down, and leaned heavily down upon it. They rocked together, having lost the leverage they needed. John cursed as Arthur raised his head just slightly. He drew John tight against his furnace of a body, rutting against him. 

The younger man whimpered something awful, his own member caught between them. It was hot and tight, the friction so slight it threatened to drive him mad. He turned his head and buried his face in Arthur's sandy hair, damp and fragrant in the night's heat. Arthur grunted lowly like a buffalo strutting across the prairie, parading his prowess. 

John was breathing harsh and hot, each rushed exhale tapering so close to a whine. For all he knew he was crying like a kicked dog, he couldn't hear much past Arthur's wild sounds and his own rushing blood. What blood wasn't down south, anyways.

John was close, so close. But he'd been that way for what felt like hours. He still held off. He screwed his eyes shut and dug his blunt nails in, the muscles in his legs vibrating. He knew better than to do this to himself, but if he didn't, he'd be finished long before Arthur. There was no fun in that. Afterwards though, he could do without that boneless, dead tired feeling. 

Maybe. He liked the fuzzy, weak and soft aftermath of it all. Which was why he waited so long for Arthur.

Arthur was pushing hard enough it moved John up the bed each time, but he neither pulled in or out very far. He heard Arthur's feet kick at the blankets as he searched for purchase.

Then, Arthur drew back, prying John's gripping hands away. He bent his knees and scooted up, still pushing John's hands off of him. Only momentarily. He then worked at prying John's shuddering thighs apart. 

John arched his back off the bed, squeezing tight. He wasn't ready yet. He wouldn't last if Arthur got free. "Son of a bitch, John you better let me go." He hissed, strands of his hair falling across his forehead. 

John couldn't help the chopped huffs of laughter, a moan weaseling its way up through his chest and out his mouth. Arthur's big, powerful hands on his legs was enough to have him weak in the knees. So weak, he lost his hold. 

Arthur quickly threw his legs over his shoulders and plunged back down and in deep. John cried out at the depth of this new angle, feeling himself twitch so hard he wondered if it might be a cramp instead. He tossed his arms around Arthur's neck, yanking him in close. Arthur pressed his forehead hard against John's, and they shared the same hot breath as he pounded into him.

And John went over the edge. He shut his eyes tight, jaw slack in a voiceless moan as he came over his own stomach. The contractions he felt from his balls to his belly button were downright exhausting. His breath came so harshly after that as he clenched down hard on Arthur. Repeatedly, as if he was trying to force him out.

Arthur crushed their lips together roughly, kissing him and snarling into his mouth as he came too. He'd been closer than John had thought. His thrusts were just about as strong a few seconds afterwards, and John could feel his brain leaking from his ears. But he slowed, so gradually. Until he tipped himself back to ease John's legs down around his hips again and he came back in. Like the tide. Slow, lazy and lathing his soft tongue across his throat and below his ear. Arthur suckled on his neck, gently.

Arthur's weight slowly settled down upon him as he set to making his mark just where John's hair would fall and hide it. Until John strained to drag in air. They both knew he liked it.

They felt so close, John coulda swore they'd melted into one another. Like two wax candles pressed so tight together they couldn't come unstuck without damaging the other.

John dug his fingers into the wavy, shaggy locks Arthur sported so well, taking a deep breath of his scent. Arthur kissed his neck so tenderly now, his stubble leaving rough scratches in contrast. He made a trail back to John's mouth and lapped deep inside the willing cavern, sucking lightly on his tongue and lips. John caught himself moaning again.

Their times together were so simple and raw, so close and heated. It was like Arthur really loved him like this. 

But he was just letting off steam. Finding comfort in John's willing body. Taking out his many frustrations on a ready volunteer. 

It was a secret. A little bit of one. Hosea knew every bit of it, hell he seemed to know more of it than John did. Nobody else, though. At least he hoped so. They did this in secret, away from camp. On jobs with just eachother mostly. 

It was good. 

It was. He forbid himself from thinking 'but it could be better'. Arthur could love him. They could love eachother. 

No, they couldn't. 

Arthur had eased back into just lying there, face buried in the nape of John's neck. They breathed in turns, and John held his breath just so he could match pace with Arthur. The other man laid still for just a while longer, before rolling to the side. John bit his tongue and grunted as Arthur unsheathed himself from his body. But Arthur didn't go far. John took his arms back, just as Arthur grabbed him and pulled him close again. He held him against himself, and John made a pillow of his shoulder.

John left an arm draped across Arthur's barrel of a chest and his leg strewn over his legs. They weren't the least bit concerned with cleaning up.

He listened to Arthur breathe, those deep, sighing breathes he breathed. The thrum of his heart nearly lulled him to sleep. But Arthur's rumbling voice startled him from his doze. 

"You oughta quit pullin' that trick, Marston. Almost make me think you don't want this." 

He sounded tired, and he likely was. But he sounded almost upset. John wouldn't let himself believe that for a second. But he sat up just a bit anyways on weak limbs to stare hard at the other. "If I didn't want this, don't you think I would have gone and knocked you out already?" 

Arthur's blue eyes flickered to meet his brown ones, brow pinching down. He licked his kiss swollen lips and looked to the ceiling. The ceiling of the hotel they stayed in. "I guess you got a point there, John." 

He felt a shiver wiggle up his spine as Arthur's rough hand slid from his back down to his waist. He squirmed a bit when he squeezed at the taut flesh there. "Why d'you do that then?" The hand slipped to his hips, and kneaded at his skin and bones.

John couldn't resist lying back down and resting his head on Arthur's broad chest. His finger swirled in the dusting of honey colored hair there. The warmth of his hand spanned over his lower back. John did resist shutting his eyes, he knew he'd fall asleep. The dying fire in the hearth nearby the only source of light. It said to him 'go to sleep, tomorrows yet to come you fool'.

He didn't listen as Arthur's calloused hand rubbed so soothingly against his spine. It was hard to block out each individual word, though. He could admit that.

"Hm?" Arthur drew him from his thoughts with the rumbling hum. Like thunder. "Because if I don't I'd lose it before you even got yourself started." He confessed, blinking to find himself nuzzling closer. 

Arthur kept his warm arm pressed to John's back and side, his hand slack against his stomach. His fingertips danced over his belly. John snorted, and hmphed. Arthur thrummed his fingers against his skin, a slight and breathy chuckle bubbling from his chest.

John could feel each little huff of laughter and curl of that sweet voice crushing his heart. Slowly. He longed to hear more, but it entailed to everything he couldn't have. Hearing it again might just kill him. He almost wanted to throw Arthur's arm off of himself and roll away and just pass out. Forget this ever happened, but he knew he didn't have any of the strength he needed for that. So he laid there with an ache in his chest.

"John you're young." He stated matter of factly. "I could make you come twice." He sounded so sure of himself. John jumped as Arthur suddenly gripped his ass, two fingers digging in dangerously close to his hole. He slapped a hand over his, prying it away. "No," John drew the 'o' out long. "Nope. I don't think so."

"What, you don't want to?" 

John shook his head against his chest. Arthur squeezed hard around his heart as he took it upon his damn self to put his hand on top and entwine their fingers. John shut his eyes against the hurt in his own chest. It traveled up his throat but he swallowed it down. He squeezed Arthur's bent fingers with his own, his thumb slipping across dull fingernails and tough knuckles.

"I don't think I could." He managed finally. He cleared his throat hoping to ensure his next sentence wouldn't sound so withering. 

"Naw. You don't think I could." John gave a little huff at that, a scoff. "I bet you could, I just don't reckon I'd have it in me."

Arthur hummed, rattling John's brain. "We'll have to see one of these days. Never know until you try." John dreaded that day. He really did. Even as Arthur dragged both their hands back and forth over Johns hip, petting him gently. Caressing him. His eyelids felt heavy.

But he plowed on, tipping his chin up to look at Arthur. Not seeing much besides stubble. So he scootched up, making Arthur grunt and look at him.

John couldn't resist now. He propped himself up on one arm, the other hand disentangling from Arthur's and sliding up his belly to his chest. He momentarily paused to push his own hair behind his ear before dipping down. His hand cupped Arthur's jaw and he kissed him softly, like he'd break or disappear.

Arthur rubbed his lower back and kissed him in return. His other hand drew up and he slid his fingers into John's hair, the heel of his palm hot against his cheekbone as they kissed slowly. They kissed reverently, and they knew just when and how to turn and dip. It felt so right. It felt so perfect, and John hated himself for it. He hated himself for kissing Arthur so sweetly and he hated Arthur for kissing him like he loved him. Like he loved him like that.

The constant ache swelling beneath his skin and swirling in his belly almost made him pull away. Arthur noted the break in pace, and his thumb swiped at his temple comfortingly. "I can hear you thinkin', John. You better quit that. Set your head on fire." He whispered against his lips. John tried to kiss him back but he couldn't keep going. He tipped back just barely, looking Arthur in the eyes.

There was a warm, twinkling light in there. So soft and comforting. It looked like a hot spring, rich and swirling with bubbles. Like if he dove in, he'd forget all about that ache. But it was too deep. And John couldn't swim.

He had to look away, and shut his eyes. "I'm sorry." He muttered, lying back down with his head on Arthur's shoulder and a hand on his chest. He didn't even want to be this close anymore. He'd rather sleep on the ground, in the cold. Maybe the whistling wind would blow away the smoldering embers of guilt he felt searing his guts.

Arthur kept that hand in his hair, rubbing slowly at his scalp. Sleep called to him but he kept awake even as his eyes burned. The pad of his thumb rubbed softly against his forehead. His other hand slid up and down along his arm. Either Arthur was really touchy feely tonight or he was really trying to comfort him. Why would he comfort John? Because the ache he bet radiated from his flesh was just too annoying?

"Sorry for what?" 

God, he wanted to laugh. He wanted to cry too. He did neither, but got really close to both as he stared off at the far wall. Could he even answer that question? Where would he even start?

"I don't know." He murmured. 

He felt Arthur turn his head and press his chin against his own crown. Heard him breathe in, smelling him. Felt his hot breath fan across his scalp, which he still massaged.

"You ain't feelin' good are you?"

John's heart felt like a hundred pounds, honestly. Felt like a chunk of lead ready to fall through him, the bed and the floor. But all it did was tug at the strings that held it in place and stretched them till they hurt. His eyes stung and he could feel the tears bubbling behind them. Before he knew it, he couldn't rightly see through the crystalline liquid. He refused to let a single drop fall and touch Arthur's skin. 

"Feelin fine," He grunted, voice high and tight in his throat. Thick and painful as he tried to force it down where it belonged. Arthur grunted, busying himself with brushing John's hair aside and carding through the locks. His fingers petted the shell of his ear everytime they passed.

"Don't sound fine. You're all tense and sad lookin' in the eyes. Whats the matter, Johnny boy?" 

He only just now became aware of how rigid he was laying. John squeezed his eyes shut and curled in against Arthur. He shook his head, and Arthur kept combing his hair back. He curled his fingers back behind John's head, kneading his scalp and blocking the dying light of fire from his view with his forearm.

"Nothin'." He said so shortly. His nose threatened to run, and he sniffled before he could tell himself to do otherwise. His hand fisted against Arthur's chest. Arthur's heart drummed at a pace or two faster than he recalled it doing so earlier. 

"Is it me? This? Us? Just tell me if you don't want it, I won't take it to you." God as much as he wanted to be left alone to rot, he couldn't stand the thought of Arthur picking someone else. 

He sat up abruptly and brought his knees close to his chest. He folded his arms over his knees and hid his face. His ears burned and his head buzzed everywhere Arthur touched. John could hear Arthur shifting over the warble of noise that came to him as he fought the tears that just kept coming. He didn't cry that often, but he definitely did cry sometimes. Especially when he was as tired as he was now.

He heard Arthur move, but he didn't feel him touch him. Which sent another pang of guilt like an arrow to his chest. Arthur had seemed to enjoy touching. Now he was being a sorry excuse for a man and ruining the night. He deserved every nasty word anyone would ever throw at him whether it pissed him off or not.

John lifted his head, finding little reason to keep hiding. It was obvious what was happening at this point. He tried to dry his face, but it was useless. Arthur was sitting with his back to him and his feet on the floor. His powerful, naked frame so perfectly illuminated by the waning firelight. John felt sick to his stomach for being so selfish as to try to keep such a thing for himself. That sort of sickness he felt so briefly when he took an animals life before remembering what it was all for and thanking that animal instead.

He couldn't thank Arthur for lending, because he was a selfish bastard and he just wanted to keep him for himself forever.

"You gonna talk, John? Cause I'll draw conclusions if you make me." Arthur spoke lowly, in that husky quiet voice he does. John felt his bottom lip quiver and its been a long time since he's felt this small and vulnerable.

He sniffed long and stuttering, just trying to get a grip on himself. He was terrified of what conclusions Arthur might take it upon himself to make. The unknown scared him, it scared everybody he guessed. 

"I just-" He started, teeth nearly chattering. "I think..." He wiped his eyes and sniffed again and again, unable to formulate the sentences he wanted. Arthur's head hung, then he turned a bit, looking John in the eyes. John couldn't look back for long, too ashamed.

"I... love you, Arthur. And not in the way I should. I love you like-" He struggled to put the thoughts and words together, voice nasal and wet. "Like a man shouldn't really love another man." As his father had once out it long ago. "And I'm sorry." He finished, the strength in his voice two syllables from failing him.

"John, you damned fool." Arthur grumbled, like it wasn't a big deal. Like John had gone and dropped a spoon or spilled a beer. He looked up, bewildered to see Arthur suddenly so close. "Lay back, John. Quit your cryin' you tired old fool." 

He did, and Arthur took it upon himself to lay almost on top of him and between his already spreading legs. They fell together like the last two pieces of a puzzle.

. . . 

John woke up, feeling to hot and too cold all at once. The breeze was cold, but the sun was hot. 

There was chatter not too far away. And the purposeful stamping of boots in grass and twigs. "John are you awake?" He heard Abigail asking in that sharp tone. He grunted, all too stiff to even make a move to rub his eyes. He just kept them shut.

He wished he was back in that dream, that memory so perfectly depicted again in a dream. The night he truly believed Arthur gave a shit or two. He felt played. He felt played and guilty. Always guilty. Always foolish. Everytime he dreamed of that night. It felt so long ago now. Almost two years. Why did he remember it so vividly? He hated himself, God dammit.

"Why the hell are you sleeping here, John? You have a nice big tent all to yourself and you sleep on the ground, using this rough old tree as a pillow? God, you are the dumbest man I know." She growled, and by the sound of her retreating footsteps, that was that. He grunted again, trying to laugh off the dull ache her words left and the thrumming ache in his head. 

"Pa?"

His eyes snapped open, fear zipped into his chest. Jack's little face hung in his vision. His little eyebrows pinched together. He leaned to the side like he was hanging from the tree. Funny. He couldn't be doing that.

The sun stabbed his eyes as he tipped his head, and he winced. "What did you call me?" He asked, eyes screwed mostly shut against the suns rays. Jack drew his hands together, fiddling with his fingers. John didn't feel repulsed. He didn't feel hatred. Just fear and a deep, deep sadness. He pitied the boy. He wished Abigail would give up and pick someone else. There were plenty better men.

"Sorry... Are you okay? You have owies."

John touched a fingertip or two to his face, feeling the crusted blood and puffy skin around one eye. He explored the tear in his cheek and remembered. "Yeah." He responded shortly, sighing and shutting his eyes. "Go play, please. Somewhere else."

God he knew he sounded so cold, so mean. He didn't know what he supposed to say. What was a father anyways? Not John Marston.

When he opened his eyes again, Jack was gone. He stared at the empty space before him. The valley before that, and he thought about how the world could do without him. But he sighed deeply and forced himself to his feet. His body ached and his tongue felt almost spiky it was so dry. His lips stuck to his teeth. So he made his way slowly to the chuck wagon, hardly aware of any other living thing. 

If anyone spoke to him, he certainly wasn't aware of that. He didn't know if it was because he genuinely couldn't hear or if he just wasn't bothering to pay attention. On the backside of the chuck wagon was a barrel of water. He dipped his hands in and wet his face. He saw the crusted blood turn pink and runny against his fingers. He took care to swish a bit of water about in his mouth and spit it into the dirt. It hurt too much to keep bothering with the flesh on his face so he turned away and took a mostly cloth from the dish wash and patted down a bit. When he looked up and happened to glance towards the side, he saw Charles leaning against a tree and looking at him.

John tossed the cloth back where it came from and turned towards Charles. "Arthur?" He asked.

Charles nodded, eyebrow twitching. John turned to look where he nodded to. Arthur was just riding in on that paint he got from the mountains, a fresh deer on its rump. John grunted and looked back to the native man. "What all did you hear last night?"

"Not much." Not a man of many words at all. John sniffed and walked away, knowing full well he wasn't exactly good company. He thought he could just delve deeper into those trees to the north and sit at the edge of the cliff to stew in misery alone. But as he sat down in the grass, too exhausted to stand much longer, a voice startled him.

"John, my dear boy." Hosea greeted, the chipper tone in his voice almost immediately smoothing a few ruffles in John's mood. Just a few. He groaned as he settled down beside him, wincing at the ache the ground gave his resting bones. "Charles tells me you received quite the thrashing from Arthur. Care to share?"

John glanced at him, shifting to use one knee as an arm rest. He looked off at the mountains in the distance. He could still hear the howling. Of the wind and wolves alike.

"No, not particularly."

Hosea sucked his teeth, taking a deep breath. He lifted his own knee and clasped his hands around it. The two of them scanned the horizon for a moment or two.

"He doesn't hate you, John." Briefly, John wondered if Hosea could see his dreams or read his mind like one of his precious books. He snorted at it anyways, shaking his head and glancing down. "He cares about you still. You broke his heart, you need to understand." Hosea tried valiantly to explain. "He's hurt and angry. And like a wounded animal he lashes out at you. Not because he hates you."

John watched the peak of the mountains so far away, like it might open a pair of eyes and watch him back.

"But theres no convincing you is there?" From the corner of his eye he saw Hosea shake his head. "None of us hate you. Most of us have forgiven you, and some of us trust you just the same as before. It takes time for some. But I could sit here and tell you until my voice leaves me and you'd never believe a word of it. Even before you left, John, you had yourself believing not one of us really cared. Remember we used to talk about it, just you and I? You used to... let your mind at ease sometimes. You used to forget if only for a moment that you want the world to hate you and hurt you for everything you think you've done."

John remained so quiet. But his gaze dropped and darted about as he thought, as he remembered. He shut them, and blinked hard before looking towards the mountains again.

"I'm real sorry, Hosea." There wasn't any life in his voice. But he was sincere.

"Please stop seeking punishment, John. It'll come to you, eventually. Enjoy what you have while you can... Leave the past where it belongs, son."

"Hosea." The two of them started, looking behind them at Arthur who towered among the trees. His gaze was pinned on John. "Dutch wants to see you."

John looked to Hosea, who glanced between the two of them before giving a mighty 'huh'. Then he struggled to his feet and headed back into camp, gaze lingering on Arthur as he went. Arthur didn't peel his glare away from John. But John could move, he had other things to look at. So he looked away, back to the familiar faces of mountains. The crags he stared at, wondering which one he could have died on should Arthur have been a little more persistent about not going out and looking for him.

But he listened carefully as Arthur walked down the slight slope, footsteps light but firm. He knew exactly where to place his feet on the earth. John had never mastered such certainty.

He could feel Arthur's presence looming at his side. 

"Don't listen to him, John." He blinked and felt something unwind a bit between the two of them at that playful tone in his sly voice. Like snakes to the right music. John glanced up at him, still weary. "I'm fairly certain Bill hates you." At that, he couldn't help but smile a little bit and give a little snort of laughter. Arthur looked down to his, eyes crinkling in a smile that looked more like a wince from there. John knew how unnatural a smile must feel to that grumpy ass. One corner of his mouth twitched just a little further and he looked off to the mountains again. He planted his elbow on his knee and used the back of his hand to smush the lopsided little grin into nothingness.

"Go get yourself some real food, John. Been a few days since you ate. Bet you're real hungry." John glanced up to see him stuffing his thumbs behind his gun belt, shoulders rolling. No doubt shaking off the trail. He smelt of fire and blood. A combination that needed washing away. John moved to get up, not quite finding the strength he needed in his core to accomplish such a task. Made him wonder how he managed to get up off that tree. 

Arthur already grabbed him by his arm and dragged him to his feet. John nodded to him, eyes still weary as their gazes lingered. If John wasn't mistaken, the rage was absent. Replaced by something softer and colder. It was like looking in a mirror, staring at a deep seated sorrow. He swallowed down any words he might have and nodded again before walking back towards camp.

. . . bonus bit bc i know some of you wanted to know if he gets revenge so i made a shitty  little thing  . . .

Arthur watched him go, teeth grinding with each gimping step. He was still in pain, he figured. As angry as he wished he could be, he didn't have it in him right about now. It felt like folk were out to get John and he didn't know why.

Well, those particular folks in the woods will never bother him again. He'd made sure of that by leaving late last night and making an educated guess at which lowdown farmhouse harbored the sick bastards who did that to John. It wasn't hard to find them because he'd run into them himself before and politely turned them down. His instincts had told him to do so. 

But John was a fool. He thought too much of the folk around himself and got himself hurt over and over again. Arthur hated that about him. He wished John thought as lowly of folk as he did himself. He'd have avoided so many scrapes in the past.

But when he got to that home and he saw that man on the porch, he vision swam red. He saw flames. In the end they were hot and real because he sat that house on fire after he slit the throats of both occupants. He found the money John had been sent to fetch, and more.

So he caught them all dinner on the way home, letting his fury seep out and stain the trail as he went. His muscles and his bones felt looser, he felt like he could breathe and live by the time he returned. He saw John disappearing into the trees and Hosea walking across camp with urgent purpose.

He figured he'd give them a minute while he updated the ledger with John's name and a thousand dollars. He'd spent the entire ride out to that house seething, imagining the heinous things they did. The way John felt before, during and after. How angry he had been, so angry he took it out on John himself. What kind of backwards fool does that? 

The guilt ate at his stomach, and as he headed towards the trees he turned down Mary-Beth's kind offer to sit and have breakfast with him.

He'd listened to Hosea's little speech. 'None of us hate you.' And he felt the guilt claw at his chest. And pity, he felt pity for John. Or was it sympathy? Empathy? Did he expect the same thing of the world? Nonetheless it felt like a punch in the jaw to be reminded that John had to even be told such things, such basic things he should know as fact but never did. He couldn't imagine feeling so uncertain of your standing with everyone you cared for.

Hosea begged John to quit being a John hating bastard and Arthur decided it was time to free him from that spot. So he had made up a lie and sent Hosea on his way. 

John shied from his gaze like a bad dog, or a dog waiting for another round of abuse. He hated it. But he couldn't stir up the passion to really hate it.

But he dwelled on it as John walked away, leaving him to stare at the mountains, think and remember like he did.

. . .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading, i plan to write one(probably a separate work) in arthurs pov but ive really been feelin like writing in johns so its really tough for me to swap. which is why arthurs little bit in here is small and really rushed over. i did want to include it though for some closure for some of you guys. thank you for your comments!

**Author's Note:**

> anyways, thanks for takin a look at this. comments are appreciated, but please i ask again. keep it spoiler free, not everyone reading or writing fics have finished the game.


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